


it's time the kid got free

by zach_stone



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: But the focus is on After the movie, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Medium Slow Burn??, Pining, Post-Canon, Sort of? It's a fix-it in that Eddie is not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: But now he remembers his childhood, and the fierceness of all the emotions he felt back then — love most of all. Love was a blood oath, it was Bev handing him the fencepost that could kill monsters, it was what made him throw that fencepost into Its gaping maw to save Richie from the deadlights.When it comes to what love feels like for Eddie, it’s always been — different, with Richie. He loves all of his friends with all of his heart, but Richie has burrowed in deeper, somehow, and if Eddie were a more dramatic or poetic man he might say he loves Richie in his bones, in his soul. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t say that, even if he maybe thinks it a little bit and feels ridiculous.--Or, after killing It and returning to New York, Eddie decides to make a change.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from these lyrics:  
"My mother's love is choking me  
I'm sick of words that hang above my head  
What about the kid? It's time the kid got free."  
\- The Love Club, Lorde 
> 
> Eddie has always been my favorite character ever since I read the book, and I'm excited to be writing something from his POV. This is technically a fix-it, because Eddie isn't dead, but I don't go into detail about that here. He just Wasn't Skewered By Pennywise. 
> 
> This fic will be 3 parts, and everything's pretty much written already, so the next chapter will be up on Wednesday and the final chapter on Friday! I hope y'all enjoy. :)

As much as he can’t believe the thought is crossing his mind, Eddie doesn’t want to leave Derry. Well, that’s not exactly true — Eddie can’t wait to get the hell out of this shithole town, this is going down in the books as the worst visit home in history. He doesn’t want to leave for the same reason he didn’t want to when he was a kid and his mother packed him up and moved him away: he doesn’t want to leave his friends. None of them want to go, now that they’ve found each other again, but their lives outside of Derry don’t care that they just defeated a personification of evil by the skin of their teeth. Eddie has a collective 200 missed calls from Myra and his boss. 

Richie is the first to leave. He’s packed up and standing in the doorway of his room when Eddie bumps into him in the hall. Richie looks slightly guilty at being caught, and Eddie fights a swell of panic at the sight of him holding his duffle bag over one shoulder and not making eye contact.

“You heading out already?” Eddie asks, folding his arms across his chest and trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Ha, yeah.” Richie rubs the back of his neck, hoisting his duffle a little higher. “Uh, tour dates, you know? Got a couple nights in Reno soon. My agent is shitting himself.”

“Reno, _ wow,” _ Eddie says, unable to help the edge of sarcasm that creeps into his voice.

Richie laughs, finally seeming to relax slightly. “Man, shut up. I know you’re impressed.” 

“That’s one word for it,” Eddie says. He glances back down the hallway, where everyone else is in their rooms. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye to anyone? That’s not cool, man.”

“I — I wasn’t gonna do that,” Richie says shiftily. “I was just dropping my shit off in my car first, you know. I was gonna come back in and say bye.” 

“Right.” Eddie uncrosses his arms so he can gesture to the stairs. “I’ll walk you down.”

“Making sure I don’t run off into the night, Eds?” Richie asks.

“Well if you’d stop making a habit of it maybe I wouldn’t have to, asshole,” Eddie snaps. Richie doesn’t have a comeback for that one. They get to the bottom of the stairs in silence, and then to the doors. Richie holds the door open for Eddie, who gives him a mistrustful look before stepping outside. Neither of them say anything until they get to Richie’s car, and Eddie blurts out, “What if we forget again?” 

Richie lets out a long, slow breath. “We won’t.” He pulls out his phone and wiggles it. “Got your number right in here, Eds, I’ll text you every day to make sure you remember just how annoying I am. Follow me on Instagram or something if you miss my pretty face.”

“I don’t use Instagram,” Eddie mutters. 

“Oh. Well then, here.” Richie opens the camera on his phone and swings an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, tugging him in close and snapping a picture before Eddie’s anywhere near ready for it. Richie taps on the photo, and a soft expression momentarily crosses his face. Eddie, who can’t see the picture, just looks at Richie and feels like his lungs are burning. He pats his jeans pocket, unconsciously searching for the inhaler he doesn’t carry anymore. Then Richie chuckles slightly and taps on his phone a couple more times before announcing, “Aaaaand, sent. There, now you have a picture to remember me by.”

Sure enough, Eddie feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. He doesn’t reach for it, not wanting to look at the picture when the actual Richie is standing right there. He finds himself trying to commit every detail of Richie to memory — the way his hair falls, slightly unkempt, over his forehead, and how he clearly needs to shave, how his glasses still have a crack spiderwebbing across one corner of the lens. The way his mouth is turned down slightly, not quite frowning. The way his eyes meet Eddie’s, and how nervous he looks. Wary, even. 

“Hey, c’mon, man, it’s not like I’m vanishing off the face of the earth, alright?” Richie says. “I _ will _text you, I promise. And if you’re ever in Cali, hit me up! We’ll, I don’t know, hit the clubs or something.”

Eddie gives him an incredulous look. “Is that what you do? ‘Hit the clubs’?” He puts the last bit in air quotes. 

Richie grins at him. “No, but picturing you in a club in LA is _ very _entertaining.”

“Jackass,” Eddie says. He smiles, trying to relax and just let himself believe that what Richie’s saying is true, that they’ll stay in touch and remember this time around. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime. But we are _ not _going clubbing, we’re forty fucking years old.”

“You’re the most boring person alive,” Richie tells him, and then steps forward and hugs him tightly. Eddie flounders for a moment, taken aback, before he wraps his arms around Richie and hugs him back just as hard. He feels his throat constrict like he’s about to cry. 

“I thought you said you weren’t leaving yet,” Eddie says, his voice muffled in Richie’s shirt.

“I’m not,” Richie says. “Just… wanted to do this first.” There’s a shaky quality to his voice that Eddie can’t quite place. He sounds almost — scared. Of what, Eddie can’t guess. Richie releases him, pulling back to put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, holding him out at arm’s length and just _ looking _at him. “Eddie, I —” Richie cuts himself off, looks down and to the side, and chuckles ruefully. “I should say goodbye to everyone else.”

He starts to head back to the inn, leaving Eddie feeling out of sorts and vaguely tingly with the sense memory of Richie hugging him. When they were kids, they could barely keep their hands off each other, but Richie hasn’t hugged him the entire time they’ve been back home until now. He doesn’t know what to make of it, what to make of _ anything_, so he just follows Richie back inside. 

After Richie leaves, it’s like a chain reaction, and soon everyone is packing up to go their separate ways. Eddie returns home to find Myra in near hysterics that he does a poor job of calming, especially when he says he can’t tell her what he was doing while he was gone or why he has a stab wound in his face. After about a week he’s able to fall back into their regular routine again, even if she’s more resentful than usual and keeps shooting him hurt looks. Their relationship has been… performative at best, for the majority of their marriage. He kisses her goodbye before work in the same obligatory way that he’d kiss his mother goodbye as a child. Before he left for Derry, he’d end up sleeping in the spare bed in his home office at least once or twice a week. Now, he’s sleeping there pretty much every night. 

He supposes they love each other; she makes sure he takes his various medications and fusses over him constantly, in a way that is aggravating but familiar, too easy to slip right into. It’s how his mother was, and he supposes he loved her too, because she was his mother. For most of his life, he’s just assumed that’s how love feels — a bit like an obligation, a bit like a thing you were too weary to question. 

But now he remembers his childhood, and the fierceness of all the emotions he felt back then — love most of all. Love was going into Neibolt with Richie and Bill, because as scared as he was he knew his friends needed him. Love was going back in _ again _ to save Beverly, knowing exactly how scary it would be that time and doing it anyway. Love was what he’d felt when he clung to Stan and babbled apologies after It had tried to eat his face off. Love was a blood oath, it was Bev handing him the fencepost that could kill monsters, it was what made him throw that fencepost into Its gaping maw to save Richie from the deadlights. 

How could he have forgotten what it felt like, the intensity of really loving someone? When he was 13 sometimes he would look at one of his friends and feel like his ribs were going to break open from how much he loved them. He ponders this one morning as he lays in the spare bed, staring up at the ceiling and letting the memories flood through him. 

His phone buzzes, and Eddie reaches under his pillow to retrieve it. It’s a text from Richie to the group message the Losers have been keeping up. 

_ thinking of you guys_, Richie’s message says. A moment later another comes through: _ because i can do that now. wild. _

Beverly sends a heart emoji. Eddie locks his phone and sets it back down, running a hand over his mouth. When it comes to what love feels like for Eddie, it’s always been — different, with Richie. He loves all of his friends with all of his heart, but Richie has burrowed in deeper, somehow, and if Eddie were a more dramatic or poetic man he might say he loves Richie in his bones, in his soul. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t say that, even if he maybe thinks it a little bit and feels ridiculous. 

He picks up his phone again, and opens up the photo Richie took of the two of them the day he left Derry. It’s not a great picture, objectively. It’s blurry because Richie was still moving when he took it, and Eddie’s expression is one of mild alarm, staring dead into the camera. Richie is looking sidelong at Eddie, one side of his mouth curved up into a smile that seems almost like he didn’t mean for anyone to see it. 

Eddie closes his eyes. His heart is pounding, because he knows he’s about to make a Big Decision, and his mind runs through every risk and every benefit but he knows that even if he comes up with more cons than pros, he’s going to do this thing. He had this sort of epiphany once before, when he stood up to his mother and refused to take his fake medicine anymore. Then, of course, he forgot that epiphany and fell right back into the same old habits. 

He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him before opening up the medicine cabinet and peering inside. A veritable smorgasbord of pill bottles looks back at him. There are several of the little weekly pill organizers, neatly stacked in one corner, as well as a ton of orange prescription bottles and multivitamins and god knows what else. Eddie picks up one of the bottles and rolls it over in his hands. Then, seized with a sudden anger, he wrenches off the cap and dumps the contents of the bottle down the toilet. As he flushes, he feels vaguely panicked watching the pills swirl down into the sewer, but there’s no taking it back now, and he _ knows _he doesn’t need them. Eddie lets out a weak, slightly hysterical laugh.

He goes back to his room and calls Richie, who answers after only two rings. 

“Eds!” he says, loud and delighted. There’s a relief there, too, and it’s mutual; just hearing Richie’s voice quells some of the panic in Eddie’s brain. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie says, and the words just tumble out without him really thinking about them. “Listen, I’ve got a conference this week in LA for work, I was hoping I could crash at your place?”

“Oh! Yeah, absolutely, man. Your work’s not paying for a hotel?” 

Eddie winces — he’s never been a good liar, he never thinks to plan out the details beforehand. “They, uh, they were going to, but I told them I had a place covered. You _ did _offer.”

“And the offer still stands, dude, for sure.” There’s a smile in Richie’s voice, and Eddie finds that he’s smiling too. “I’m actually in Philly for a show tonight, but I fly home in the morning and then I’ll be in LA for a while, so this works out really well.” 

_ Thank god_, Eddie thinks. He really should have looked up Richie’s tour schedule before he called. “Awesome. Thanks, Rich. I’m still not going clubbing with you, by the way.”

“We’ll see about that, Kaspbrak,” Richie says. “Hey, I gotta get going, but text me your flight details, alright?”

“Will do. See you soon, Richie.”

“Bye, Eds.” 

After he hangs up, Eddie taps his phone against his mouth and stares at the opposite wall. He’s not exactly sure what he’s just done, but he’s certainly done it. 

He tells Myra he has a business trip, and the look she gives him is not a pleasant one, but she doesn’t fight him on it, which is a testament to just how unreal his life has become since he got back to New York. Normally she’d try to coax him into staying home, looking up the crime rates in whatever city he was going to or whatever disease outbreak he was sure to encounter there. He recognizes this new tactic, though — she’s icing him out, the way his mother used to do when her weeping and begging didn’t work, which, Jesus, Eddie doesn’t love what _ that _says about this entire situation. In any case, he’s not thirteen anymore and he can ignore the cold shoulder. It’s better than a shouting match. 

He packs a suitcase and books a flight for the next day, and then he calls his work and cashes in all of his vacation time, which amounts to about two weeks. He feels like a lunatic. He’s restless, hands shaky and mind racing. Eddie’s not sure exactly what his plan is, once he gets to LA, but he knows that he needs to sort his shit out and he’s not going to do that if he stays at home. 

The flight is a nightmare — long enough to give Eddie time to really work himself into a panic. He wishes he could pop a couple Xanax and knock himself the fuck out, but he left all his meds at home in a fit of righteous fury. _ Idiot _, he thinks, watching the clouds out the window and methodically clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees. He ends up ordering a watered-down scotch and grimaces his way through it before slouching in his seat and shutting his eyes, pretending to sleep until he finally succumbs to it for real. 

When he lands, he texts Richie. _ Flight fucking sucked, but I lived. Heading to baggage claim now. _

Richie responds quickly: _ aw don’t worry eds, soon you can drown your sorrows in shitty chinese takeout and the best lodging LA can provide :-) _

Eddie feels his heart jump to his throat as he reads Richie’s text, which is an absolutely idiotic reaction to have to a stupid smiley face with a nose. He pockets his phone and makes his way through LAX until he gets to his baggage claim. Standing by the carousel, recognizable immediately because of his height and his obnoxious shirt, is Richie. He hasn’t seen Eddie yet, and is alternating between looking at his phone and peering at the sign that says _ Arrivals_. He’s bouncing on his feet, chewing on his lip and looking incredibly nervous. It slams into Eddie all at once, that marrow-deep love he carries, and he feels about ten times as jittery as Richie looks.

Then Richie’s eyes land on Eddie, and his entire face lights up. He waves, and Eddie smiles and waves back, jogging to close the distance until they’re close enough to talk. Richie is beaming at him.

“Mr. Kaspbrak, welcome to the City of Angels,” Richie says in a stuffy Voice that Eddie can’t even begin to decipher. In his regular voice, he adds, “It’s really good to see you, man.”

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie says. He opens his arms to give Richie a hug, and Richie gives him one of those one-armed, back-slapping hugs that some of Eddie’s coworkers give him at Christmas parties. It’s very weird coming from Richie, especially after their hug in Derry, and Richie seems oddly flustered when he pulls back. 

Eddie eyes him over. It’s only been a little more than two weeks since they said goodbye, so Eddie’s not sure what he’s expecting to be different. Richie’s glasses are new, having replaced the cracked ones, but they’re the same basic style. His hair is still as unkempt as before, and he still needs to shave. He’s smiling at Eddie, but his eyes have that same guarded quality to them that they’d had in Derry. He shuffles under Eddie’s scrutiny, and then flings an arm out, gesturing to the baggage carousel. 

“Get your shit, Eds, and let’s get outta here.”

He does absolutely nothing to help Eddie lug his suitcase off the carousel, except comment, “that thing’s as big as you are, Eddie, Jesus Christ, are you moving in?” which makes Eddie splutter indignantly while Richie smirks at him. 

When they’re in Richie’s car, making their slow crawl out of the airport, Richie side-eyes him. “How’s your face healing up?” He reaches over to lightly smack Eddie’s cheek, where the fresh pink scar stands out starkly against the rest of his skin.

“Ow! Lay off, you dick,” Eddie grumbles, flinching away. “It’s fine. The doctor said the scar will probably fade pretty quickly.”

“Too bad, you could really use something to up your cool factor,” Richie says, clucking his tongue. 

“Oh, _ interesting _ coming from you. What exactly gives you the _ cool factor _, Richie? The fact that your wardrobe looks like you raided Jimmy Buffett’s closet?”

“You’ll just have to ask all my adoring fans.”

Eddie snorts. “You’re such a loser.”

“Always have been, always will be,” Richie sing-songs. 

The drive is fine, easy once Eddie lets himself metaphorically unclench enough to just enjoy being in Richie’s company again. They speculate about the future of Ben and Beverly’s blossoming romance, and Richie tells a couple wild stories from his most recent tour dates that Eddie thinks are only about fifty percent true. He’s almost forgotten why he’s there, until Richie says, “So where’s this conference of yours, anyway?”

Eddie’s stomach lurches. He forgot to pick a fake venue. “Uh, some hotel,” he says quickly. “I forget the name, I’ll look it up later.” He twists his wedding ring around his finger, a nervous habit. When they stop at a light, Richie glances down and watches Eddie’s hands for a moment. Something in his posture shifts, and his shoulders are raised toward his ears when he starts driving again.

“How’d the wife take you coming home with an extra hole in your face?” Richie asks, his tone just slightly off from casual. 

“Uh, not great,” Eddie says with a dry laugh. “I didn’t. You know. Tell her anything about what happened. I’ve been sleeping in the spare room.”

“Yeesh,” Richie says, grimacing. 

“It’s…” Eddie hesitates, the word _ fine _ on the tip of his tongue, because it’s certainly not _ fine _but he’s not exactly broken up about it. “It is what it is.” 

Thankfully, Richie doesn’t push the topic after that.

They arrive at Richie’s apartment, and it’s much bigger and nicer than Eddie was imagining. The inside is cluttered, and Richie’s suitcase from his recent tour sits open and untouched in the middle of the living room. Richie shoves it into the corner with his foot.

“I was gonna get to that,” he insists, when Eddie gives him an incredulous look. “Hey, shut up, I bought us dinner, look.” He points to the bags of takeout sitting on the kitchen table. 

They eat dinner on Richie’s couch and watch Golden Girls reruns, settling comfortably close to each other, and Eddie feels better than he has since his last day in Derry. They talk about nothing particularly important, and Eddie starts to drift into exhaustion. Travel always wears him out, and his mind is still in a time zone three hours ahead. 

“Gonna go brush my teeth,” he mutters, getting up off the couch and grabbing his toiletries and a pair of pajamas from his suitcase. By the time he comes back into the living room, Richie’s changed into pajamas too, and he’s put a blanket and pillow on the couch as a makeshift bed.

“You can sleep in the bedroom,” Richie says. “I’ll crash on the couch.”

“What? No,” Eddie exclaims. “This is your house, dude, I can’t just — you won’t even fit on the couch, you’re like eight feet tall.”

“Eds, relax,” Richie says, looking amused. “I end up asleep on this couch all the time anyway, it’s no biggie. Besides, you gotta be all nice and rested for your anti-fun convention tomorrow.”

“Oh, ha-ha, how long have you been waiting to bust that one out?” Eddie grumbles, glaring.

“Right off the cuff, baby,” Richie says easily. He gestures to the hallway. “After you.” 

They walk to the bedroom and Eddie steps inside while Richie lingers in the doorway, suddenly quiet and awkward again. It’s throwing Eddie for a loop, and he’s not sure how to interact with Richie when he’s like this. 

“How many days is your conference?” Richie asks.

“Three,” Eddie says, because that sounds reasonable. Internally, he winces. Now he’s given himself a much shorter deadline to figure out what the fuck he’s doing here. He shuffles from foot to foot before finally just sitting down on the edge of the bed and saying, “Well, anyway… goodnight.”

“Night, Eds.” Richie raps his knuckles against the doorframe a few times, glances up to meet Eddie’s gaze, and then leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Eddie looks around Richie’s room, at the dark grey paint on the walls and the white baseboard. The dresser has a mirror propped up on top, and Richie has carefully tucked concert ticket stubs into the corners of it. Framed on the wall to the right of the mirror is a program — Eddie stands, crossing the room to get a closer look, and sees that it’s a program for a comedy club night in Chicago, with the performers listed down the center. Richie’s name is about halfway down the list, circled in blue pen. The date is May 2002. Richie’s first show, Eddie guesses. The paper is yellowed and crinkled beneath the glass of the frame, creased from how many times Richie must have folded and unfolded it. It makes Eddie’s heart hurt in a way he can’t quite explain. He puts a hand to his chest, closing his fist around the fabric of his shirt, and sighs. 

He feels the familiar itch to take his nighttime medications before remembering they’re still in his medicine cabinet at home. Turning back to the mirror, Eddie stares at himself until he starts to feel like he’s about to start dissolving into something horrible and oozing like the leper right there in Richie’s bedroom, and then he quickly shuts off the light and gets into bed. 

Richie’s bed is big, a queen-size mattress with soft sheets and too many pillows for a single person. Eddie presses his face into one of them, and breathes in the smell of Richie’s laundry detergent and the vaguely tropical scent of his shampoo. It’s not what he smelled like when they were kids — sunscreen and chlorine and the constant, lingering stink of quarry water — but it hits him in the center of his chest anyway, a nostalgia for something brand new. Eddie thinks about Richie asleep in the living room, and then he decides he doesn’t want to think about anything at all. He shuts his eyes tight and counts backwards from five hundred until he finally falls asleep.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for your nice comments on chapter 1! i hope u will enjoy this next chapter, as eddie digs himself deeper, richie tells some jokes, and much pining is experienced by all parties involved.

Eddie wakes up early, still on east coast time, and when he looks at the clock he sees it’s only six thirty. He lays in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, and then he grabs his phone and goes through his email, which kills about fifteen minutes. Then, feeling antsy, he gets out of bed and pads quietly into the living room.

Richie is sprawled out on the couch, and he  _ is  _ too big for it, his legs dangling over the arm of it. He’s on his back, one of his arms wedged between his torso and the back of the couch, the other trailing on the floor. He is restless even in sleep — brow furrowed, face twitching, occasionally muttering to himself. Eddie wonders what he’s dreaming about. He can guess, and it’s nothing good. 

He heads into the kitchen, and is relieved to see that Richie has a Keurig. He makes two cups of the breakfast blend Richie has tossed haphazardly in a drawer, and then brings both mugs into the living room and sets them carefully on the coffee table. He kneels down beside the couch and puts a hand on Richie’s shoulder.

“Richie,” he says, jostling him slightly. “Rich, hey, wake up.”

Richie makes a whiny half-asleep noise, opens his eyes, sees Eddie, and screams. Eddie also screams, jerking backwards and slamming into the coffee table hard enough to rattle the mugs. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit outta me,” Richie says, scrubbing his hands over his eyes and pushing himself up into a sitting position. “What the hell, Eds?”

“Don’t  _ what the hell  _ me, what the hell  _ you!” _ Eddie exclaims. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“What time’s it?” Richie asks, pawing at the coffee table for his glasses. Eddie sighs and hands them to him.

“It’s a little after seven, I think,” Eddie says.

“Seven  _ a.m.?” _ Richie repeats. “Sweet baby Christ, Eddie, why the hell did you wake me up at seven in the fucking morning? Is there a fire? Are you bleeding out onto my carpet?”

“I made coffee,” Eddie says, pointing to the cups on the coffee table. 

Richie stares at the coffee, and then at Eddie. He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re a fucking nutjob, man.” He grabs the closer of the two mugs and takes a sip, his brow momentarily uncreasing as he sighs softly. “What time’s your conference start?”

“Um, ten,” Eddie says, picking a time at random. “I’ll probably head out at 9:30 or so.”

Richie hums, still looking half-asleep as he takes slow sips of his coffee, holding the mug close to his face even when he’s not drinking. His glasses fog up. Eddie watches him and feels like his organs are collapsing. He wants his inhaler. He sits up straighter and smacks Richie’s legs, saying, “Move over,” and sits on the couch that’s still warm from Richie’s body. He grabs his own coffee and drinks it, barely tasting it. Neither of them say anything. Richie sets his now mostly empty mug back on the table and tilts his head back, eyes closed. Eddie allows himself to stare at the column of Richie’s throat, the bob of his adam’s apple and the shadow of stubble, for three seconds before he looks away. 

He gets dressed, putting on what he’d wear if he was really going to a work conference — a pale green polo shirt, khaki slacks, nice shoes. When he comes back into the living room, Richie is still in his pajamas, and the TV is on even though Richie’s looking through his phone instead of paying attention to it. He looks up when Eddie walks in, and his eyes widen in a kind of horrified delight at he takes in Eddie’s outfit. Eddie rolls his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Dude,” Richie says emphatically. “You look like you’re going to play golf or something.”

“I wouldn’t be playing golf in  _ business slacks, _ dumbshit,” Eddie says, his hand slicing through the air angrily. 

This doesn’t seem to deter Richie. If anything, the gleam in his eyes gets brighter. “Oh my god,  _ do  _ you play golf though?” he asks.

Eddie’s jaw clenches, and he looks off to the side for a moment before muttering, “...no, I’m allergic to grass.”

Richie snorts. “No the fuck you’re not,” he says. “We used to roll around in the grass all the time when we were kids, you were fine.” 

“It gives me a rash,” Eddie insists. He thinks the rash might be psychological, a trained panic symptom at this point, but he’s too stubborn to tell Richie what they both already know.

“That’s probably just your herpes,” Richie says.

“I don’t — That’s not even what herpes  _ is,  _ you fuckhead,” Eddie exclaims. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, and when he looks back up Richie is grinning at him like he knows he’s won. Sighing, Eddie says, “What’re you up to today, anyway?”

“Prepping for my show tonight,” Richie says. Then his eyes go wide. “Wait, shit, do you want to come to my show? It’s this really tiny venue, I’m just workshopping some new material — some original stuff, actually. It’s really low-key, I can ask them to hold a seat for you.” He looks so nervous and excited at the idea of Eddie being there, Eddie wouldn’t be able to turn him down even if he wanted to. “It’s at seven but I need to get there early to do soundcheck, so we’d need to leave here by like 5:30. Will you be back by then?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Eddie says. “The last, uh, presentation should be over by then.”

“Cool. Just meet me back here and we can drive over,” Richie says. His leg is bouncing, hands drumming on his knees. “Rad. Okay, get out of here so I can rehearse. I’m gonna put on the very best show for you, Eds. I bet you 15 bucks I can make you laugh.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You know what? You’re on, Trashmouth.”

They shake on it, and Eddie doesn’t think he’s just imagining the way they both let their hands linger for a fraction too long. Then he clears his throat a couple times and hooks a thumb over his shoulder, toward the door. “Okay, uh, I should go. See ya later.” 

“After a while, crocodile,” Richie says, in what Eddie can only assume is supposed to be a Steve Irwin impression. It’s decidedly not good. Eddie suppresses a smile as he shuts the door behind him. 

Once he’s standing outside Richie’s apartment, he starts panicking again. What is he supposed to do with himself for the next seven hours? He googles coffee shops and finds one a reasonable distance from Richie’s complex, and then gets an Uber there. He orders coffee even though he definitely doesn’t need another one, judging by the shakiness of his hands. 

He pulls out his phone and, almost without thinking about it, calls Bill.

“Hey Eddie,” Bill answers after a few rings.

“Hey Bill. How are things?”

“Good, good. Think I’m getting pretty close to finishing the first chapter of my new book. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” All remnants of his childhood stutter have vanished once more, and Eddie smiles at the easy confidence in Bill’s voice. Bill never really understood how enigmatic he was when they were kids, but Eddie would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth. They all would have — in a way, they all did. 

If there’s anyone who can get Eddie thinking more clearly, it’s Bill. “You still live in Los Angeles, right?” 

“About an hour north, but basically,” Bill says. “Why?”

“I, uh, I’m in town. Could you… if you’re not busy. Could you meet me at a coffee shop down here?” 

“Okay…” Bill says slowly. “Is everything okay, Eddie? What’re you doing in LA, is Richie with you?”

Eddie laughs weakly. “No, it’s — it’s just me. So will you come?”

“Yeah, okay. Just send me the address, I’ll be there soon.” 

Bill arrives about an hour and twenty minutes later, during which time Eddie purchases and methodically shreds a flaky pastry, and then throws it away and orders another one, which he actually eats. He gets a third coffee and feels like his skin is buzzing. He starts thinking about caffeine overdoses and is about five seconds from looking up symptoms on WebMD when Bill walks into the shop. Eddie knows before he even looks up; they’re all tethered by invisible threads, Eddie thinks, always aware when they’re in each other’s orbit. Bill would probably be horrified by Eddie’s mixed metaphors, but whatever. They hug, and then Bill sits down across from the table and gives Eddie a pointed look, and Eddie just — starts talking.

He tells Bill about Myra, and how things have been bad recently but how they’ve also been bad for a while, maybe even for the entirety of their marriage, and how he didn’t bring his pills and he dumped a lot of them down the toilet, and how he’s ditching work to crash at Richie’s place because he just wanted to get as far away as possible. 

“I told Myra I was at a conference,” Eddie says.

Bill hums, nodding.

“I uh, also told Richie that,” Eddie says, cringing.

At this, Bill frowns. “What, why?”

“I don’t know!” Eddie exclaims, gesticulating wildly. “I don’t have a fucking clue. He thinks I’m sitting in a risk analysis seminar right now. Christ.” Eddie props his elbows up on the table so he can rest his forehead on the heels of his palms. “I just — I need to figure out. Some things. About my life.” 

“So you… ran away to California,” Bill says slowly.

Eddie groans. “Yes, Bill, I ran the fuck away because that’s what I do.” He looks up, feeling pathetic, but Bill’s expression is patient as ever. “I feel crazy. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Maybe you’re having a midlife crisis.”

Eddie scowls. “Gee, thanks.” 

“You’re not crazy,” Bill says. “And I think it makes sense, getting away to figure shit out. Audra and I… when I got back, you know, she asked questions and I couldn’t answer them. It’s been hard. I don’t know if we’re going to stay together.” He frowns slightly. “And I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but in your case, it sounds like maybe it’s for the best if you don’t. I mean, you said it yourself, things have  _ been  _ bad. And now you understand why.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I also think,” Bill adds, “that you should tell Richie the truth.”

Eddie knows he just means the truth about the conference, but his heart still plunges into his stomach at the very thought of verbalizing his feelings to Richie. He can’t even verbalize them to  _ himself _ . Can’t admit what he is, and what he wants.  _ Welcome to day one of the “pros and cons of telling your best friend you love him” seminar, with keynote speaker Bill Denbrough _ , Eddie thinks with no small amount of hysteria. 

Bill sticks around for a couple more hours, and Eddie lets him talk about his new book and things to do in Los Angeles and other shit that he can barely focus on. It’s nice, though, to be in this coffee shop together. It’s enough to settle Eddie’s nerves, at least a little. 

Eddie kills the rest of the afternoon wandering around the city, and when he gets back to the apartment he’s bustled out again almost immediately by an extremely anxious Richie, who won’t stop fidgeting with the sleeves of his blazer or checking his reflection in the rearview mirror as he drives them to the venue. The Largo is small, with a brick courtyard full of weird art that Eddie can’t make sense of (“You’re just not cultured, Eds, I don’t know what to tell you,” Richie says when Eddie points out the mannequin with a lightbulb for a head) and a room with a bar next to the one with the stage. The bar is dim and not many people are inside, so Eddie gets a drink while Richie does soundcheck. Richie’s nervousness is giving Eddie secondhand anxiety — he knows Richie does this for a living, but he also knows that Richie bombed his last show before coming to Derry, which has been the talk of  _ many _ a comment thread online. (So maybe Eddie’s been snooping, sue him.) 

The seat Richie got for him is in the front row. Eddie peels off the little “RESERVED” sign from the back and sits down, turning to glance behind him. It’s a full house. Eddie lets out a slow breath. He takes out his phone and sends Richie a quick text:  _ Break a leg!  _

A moment later, Richie replies.  _ thanks spaghetti :-) now turn your phone off, bitch. _

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he does silence his phone and shove it into his pocket. The house lights dim, the preshow music fades. A few people whistle. And then Richie steps out, and everyone applauds. He looks even taller than usual up on stage, all gangly limbs. The sleeves of his blazer are rolled up a couple times, and he waves at the crowd before approaching the mic and taking it out of the stand.

“Thanks, thank you,” he says, as the applause settles. “I gotta say, that’s a much nicer welcome than I was anticipating. That’s my biggest applause since what my manager is calling my ‘little oopsie’ on tour a few weeks ago.” Someone whoops, and Richie points in the direction of the noise. “Thank you! I don’t know if you’re cheering for my failure or my triumphant return, but either way, thanks for the thirty bucks, bitch.” 

Eddie presses his lips together to hide a laugh. He sees Richie’s eyes flicker over to him, and Eddie just raises his eyebrows expectantly. Richie smiles. 

“The best part about fucking up is the reaction on social media. No, no, I’m serious! I got a fucking  _ hashtag _ after I bombed, #TrashmouthIsOverParty was all over Twitter. I was a trending topic for seven whole hours, and as a forty-year-old man, I mean, that’s been my lifelong dream.” 

Eddie is reluctant to admit it, but Richie’s set is genuinely funny. He can tell which of the jokes Richie’s written himself, because those are the ones that get Eddie closest to cracking and actually laughing out loud. He’s nothing if not stubborn, though, and he’s determined to win their bet. He almost makes it, too — but then Richie makes a particularly good joke and turns immediately to look Eddie dead in the eye, expression completely deadpan while the audience laughs. Eddie can’t help it, he snorts. Richie looks positively triumphant, and Eddie, laughing openly, flips him off.

After the show, Richie disappears backstage and Eddie follows the audience out into the courtyard again and stands there, feeling a little lost. Richie texts him:  _ come out back to the parking lot. taking pics w/ my adoring fans.  _

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, rolling his eyes. He makes his way to the back of the building, where they’d parked earlier. Sure enough, Richie is standing there with about a half dozen people around him, taking photos. Eddie watches quietly, leaning against the wall of the building and smiling at the way Richie does a peace sign in every single one of the selfies. When the fans finally wander away, Eddie pushes himself off the wall and says, “Hey, Trashmouth, can I get your autograph?” 

Richie turns around, grinning, and points at him with both hands. “Eduardo! You owe me 15 bucks!” 

Eddie flaps a hand at him accusingly. “You definitely cheated.”

“I don’t remember establishing any ground rules,” Richie says. “That one’s on you, Mr. Risk Analysis.” He slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulder. “But I have a better idea. You can just pay for our first round of drinks and we’ll call it even.”

Eddie tilts his head up so he can see Richie’s face and squints at him suspiciously. “First round? Where are we —  _ no,  _ Rich, I said no clubbing!”

“We’re not going to a  _ club,”  _ Richie scoffs. He starts steering them toward the car, keeping his arm around Eddie. “You’re gonna love this, just trust me.” 

Eddie almost turns around and walks directly out of the bar when he sees the karaoke machine in the corner, where two women are currently butchering a rendition of a Kate Bush song Eddie used to love in middle school. Richie, cackling, catches Eddie by the arm and tugs him back. 

“I am  _ not  _ doing karaoke with you,” Eddie warns, even as he allows Richie to lead him to a booth near the machine.

“Aw, not gonna grace me with your dulcet tones?” 

“Not enough alcohol in the  _ world,”  _ Eddie insists. He picks up the menu and winces at how sticky the table is. Richie heads over to the karaoke sign-up sheet. Eddie calls to him, “If you put my name on that thing, Rich, I’ll push you into traffic!” 

“Promises, promises,” Richie calls back.

He comes back to the table a few moments later, looking smug. They order a few beers and watch more people with varying levels of talent sing their hearts out into the karaoke mics. Pointing at Eddie with the neck of his bottle, Richie says, “So admit it, Kaspbrak, you thought I was funny.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Oh whatever, dickwad, I’m not gonna blow smoke up your ass. I think if your head got any bigger you’d break your neck.” He leans across the table to flick Richie’s forehead. Something about the alcohol, and the hazy lighting in the bar, makes touch come easier. He’s not overthinking every action so much, not overanalyzing what the tiny smile that flits across Richie’s face before he takes another drink could mean. 

When Richie’s name is called, he bounces out of his seat, leaning over to whisper, “This one’s for you, Eds,” before he walks up to the stage and grabs the mic. Eddie cringes, waiting to be embarrassed, but Richie doesn’t call him out over the microphone. When the backing music starts, Eddie’s eyebrows raise. He was expecting something crass or stupid, but he recognizes the opening notes of  _ Heroes, _ a song he and Richie had listened to obsessively when they were kids. 

Richie starts to sort of sing-speak the words, and he doesn’t have the best voice for it, but he’s clearly enjoying it with the same enthusiasm he had as a teenager, which makes Eddie smile. When Richie sings, “Though nothing will keep us together, we could steal time, just for one day,” he looks at Eddie and points dramatically at him. 

Eddie is struck with a sudden, vivid memory of being thirteen, Richie putting their shared Bowie cassette in the boombox in the clubhouse and grabbing Beverly’s hands to dance around the small space as he bellowed along to the music. They’d all laughed, and then Bill had started singing along, too — he never stuttered when he sang. Beverly was laughing too hard to really sing properly, but she took Ben’s hand and pulled him into the dance circle with her and Richie. Mike dragged a reluctant Stan up to dance as well, though it wasn’t long before Stan was smiling in that quiet way of his. Eddie, from his place in the hammock, had caught Richie’s eye as he watched his friends twirl around. Richie had winked at him, and Eddie blushed all the way up to his ears, slouching lower into the hammock until Bill came over and tipped him out of it onto the floor. Richie had caught Eddie around the waist, spinning him in a circle and yelling those same lyrics in his ear, loud and off-key. 

Eddie felt young in a way he rarely got to feel in those days — not young as in weak or small or afraid, but young in the way that anything felt possible. He’d wanted to stay that way forever, the chorus of his friends around him, Richie’s skinny arms circling him with warmth. 

He shakes himself back into the present when Richie finishes the song and does a mic-drop, which gets him yelled at by the person in charge, and Richie bops back over to their booth, laughing. He sprawls against the vinyl seat, taking a long pull from his beer before turning to Eddie. “So, whaddya think? Should I switch careers and start a band?” 

Eddie fights a smile and says, as deadpan as he can manage, “I think you should probably stick to the jokes, Trashmouth.” 

Then the guy running the karaoke reads off the sign-up sheet, “Eddie K., you’re up!”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he looks at Richie in horror. Richie looks smug as shit, and Eddie sinks lower in the booth to hide. After calling his name a couple more times, the guy gives up and calls the next person. Eddie kicks Richie in the shin, hard. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight,” he hisses, and Richie just laughs and laughs. 

They don’t get drunk, because Richie still needs to drive them home, but Eddie feels buzzed on the couple beers and Richie’s infectious post-show high. They’re laughing and touchy as they stagger into Richie’s apartment. 

“Rich,” Eddie says, as their chuckles over nothing in particular die down. “I’m gonna be sincere for a second and then you’re never hearing this from me again, but you did great tonight. Honestly.”

Richie’s grin softens into something surprised and warm. “Thanks, man. I’m really glad you were there.” 

They’re close, Eddie realizes, standing with a distinct lack of personal space between them, and the guarded look in Richie’s eyes is finally gone. In that moment, Eddie is certain that if he closed the slight distance between them, it would be okay. What’s more, he _wants _to close that distance, more than anything. He’s known this all along, even if he buried it deep enough within himself that he didn’t have to acknowledge it. For a second Eddie even thinks that Richie is going to do it, with how soft his gaze is and the way his hand is resting on Eddie’s arm, just above his elbow. Then Richie clears his throat, steps back, and laughs. It’s that same kind of laugh he did after he hugged Eddie in Derry — like he’s laughing at something not very funny at all. 

“I’m beat, I gotta go to bed,” Richie says. “See you in the morning, if I’m not still asleep when you leave.”

Eddie takes a long time to fall asleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't mean to end this chapter and last chapter with eddie going to sleep, but oh well. 
> 
> some fun facts! the largo is a real venue in los angeles, it seats about 300 people and it's extremely cool and a fun place to see stand-up, if you're ever in the area. i saw bo burnham perform there in 2014, and he did the first workshop of what ended up becoming his make happy special, so that was pretty cool. 
> 
> next chapter will be up on friday, and is about 1200 words longer than this one, so i'm excited to share it with u guys. see y'all then!


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! thank u once again for your nice comments, i hope this will be a satisfying conclusion to the story! i had a lot of fun writing this and i really like this chapter, so i hope you do too. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
-suicide mention (in regards to stan, nothing explicit)  
-homophobia (from myra + eddie's mother, mostly mentioned and nothing explicit. no slurs or violence) 
> 
> i think that's it! ok see ya in the endnotes

The next day, Eddie wakes up with the distinct knowledge that he has to tell Richie the truth. He has to tell him why he’s really in LA, and how he really feels, because he’s pretty sure they’re both panicking every time they get close to it and for all Richie knows, Eddie’s leaving tomorrow. He lets Richie sleep this time, slipping out of the apartment to wander Los Angeles for a few hours. He peruses a record shop and thinks of Richie the whole time. 

Then he finds a coffee shop that has an outdoor patio no one else is sitting at and, his heart somewhere in the region of his stomach, Eddie calls Myra.

“You didn’t call me when your plane landed,” she says to him. “You didn’t even text me. You could have been dead.”

He doesn’t point out that she didn’t contact him, either, because they both know she’s been doing it on purpose and he’s just too tired of the bullshit to bring it up. “Myra, I’m not at a conference. I’m — I’m sorry, I’m in Los Angeles, I’m staying with a… friend, from Maine. I needed to get away, to figure some things out about myself, and I have, and —”

“Something happened to you when you went on your little trip,” Myra says. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and then he laughs despite himself. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“Your mother warned me this would happen,” Myra says then, and Eddie frowns. Myra and his mother met very briefly, when Sonia Kaspbrak was on her deathbed in the hospital. They’d only spoken for a few minutes alone, when Eddie had gone to the bathroom to scrub his hands for the tenth time. “She told me if I wasn’t careful, if I didn’t keep a close enough eye on you, you’d turn out like one of those —” She stops, like she can’t even say it, but he knows immediately what she means. 

“I’m sorry,  _ what?  _ Are you — are you saying my  _ mother  _ told you I was, what, that I’m gay?” He’s never said it out loud before, he’s never even let himself  _ think  _ it, and now he’s gone and yelled it into the phone at his wife. What the fuck. “And you  _ married me anyway?”  _

“I thought I could protect you from yourself!” Myra says, her voice gearing up to a familiar pitch of hysteria. “Eddie, just come home and you’ll see, you’ll see how wrong this all is —”

“No! No, I’m not — Myra, I will come back to get my things, but that’s it. We’re done, alright, I’m done.” He covers his face with his free hand, listening to her for a long few minutes and feeling a horrible churning in his stomach.  _ If I wasn’t careful…  _ how many times had his mother drilled it into his head, the dangers of touching the other boys, they’re so  _ dirty, _ Eddie, you could get AIDS just from a hangnail — he thinks of the leper, shambling and oozing toward him, rasping from a broken mouth,  _ What are you looking for?  _ And It knew, and his mother knew, and even his fucking  _ wife  _ knew. 

He manages to cut Myra off long enough to tell her he’ll be coming home in a week or two to get his things and make arrangements for separation, and then he hangs up. There will be another, harder conversation when he gets back to New York. But this — this is a start. He exhales slowly, shakily, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

By the time he heads back to the apartment, he’s trying to get back the confidence he’d had that morning. Ironically, he thinks the thing that would really get him there would be a pep talk from Richie, but that’s not exactly an option.

He loses his nerve the moment he steps back into the apartment and sees Richie there, picking through his suitcase and wrinkling his nose at the state of his dirty clothes. This sight should absolutely not endear Eddie in any way, and frankly he’s itching to just push Richie aside and dump the whole bag into an industrial-strength washing machine — but despite all that he feels so immediately fond, and the intensity of his own feelings terrifies him. So when Richie looks up and offers him a sheepish smile, all Eddie says is, “Richie, you better not be looking through that mess for something to wear right now. Please tell me you’re not.”

“I know there’s a clean pair of socks in here I didn’t end up wearing,” Richie insists. “I need them.”

“What you  _ need  _ is to do your fucking laundry, you animal,” Eddie exclaims. He stomps closer to inspect the suitcase. “Just wear different socks that haven’t been in a suitcase for days!”

“I  _ can’t _ , all the rest of my socks are in my bag from Derry —”

“You haven’t unpacked your bag from  _ Derry?!  _ That was two goddamn weeks ago!” 

They continue to squabble, and Richie throws a pair of dirty underwear at Eddie’s head, which makes Eddie feel like he’s about to have an aneurysm for numerous reasons he can’t even begin to sort through. Richie’s laughing and standing in front of the bag to block it from Eddie’s attempts at gathering it up so he can throw it in the wash, and then his phone goes off.

“Hold that thought, Eds,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Oh, it’s from Bill. He wants to know if I checked my mail today?” Richie frowns. “Huh.”

“Maybe he sent you something?” Eddie offers, still trying to inch his way around Richie to grab the suitcase.

“Like what, a signed copy of his latest book?” Richie says, laughing. “Maybe. I’m gonna go check, I guess. Don’t touch my dirty laundry, Kaspbrak.” He pulls on his shoes (without socks, absolutely disgusting) and heads out the door. 

Eddie doesn’t touch his laundry. Instead, he sits on the couch and shakes himself a little. He can do this — he can  _ do this.  _ He tries to imagine the kind of pep talk Richie would give him: probably some stupid joke, but he’d also say something corny and sincere like  _ you’re braver than you think  _ and get Eddie feeling all stupid and fluttery inside. Fuck what his mother and Myra and the stupid fucking clown said. He slides his wedding ring off and shoves it into his pocket. He’s going to tell Richie everything.

But when Richie steps back inside, Eddie is startled by his expression. He looks pale, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and he’s walking like he’s in a daze. He’s clutching a handful of what looks like junk mail in one hand, a single envelope in the other.

“Rich?” Eddie starts to stand up, but Richie drops onto the couch beside him before he can. “What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, Richie hands Eddie the envelope. Eddie turns it over in his hands. Richie’s address is printed across the front in neat black ink. The return address is —

“Patricia Uris?” Eddie reads aloud. He feels like someone has just dumped a bucket of ice water into his stomach. “Stan’s…?”

Richie just nods. He tosses the rest of the mail onto the counter, takes the letter back from Eddie and tears open the envelope. His hands are shaky, and he practically rips the envelope in half. Eddie looks away, trying not to snoop as Richie unfolds the letter within, but after a moment Richie nudges him and holds the paper out so they can both read it.

_ Dear Losers,  _ it starts. Eddie wonders if there’s an identical letter waiting in his mailbox back home. He wonders if Myra will open it just to spite him. He swallows down that worry and reads on.  _ I know what this must seem like, but this is not a suicide note…  _

Eddie’s only able to get through a couple more sentences of the letter before Richie’s hand starts shaking badly enough that Eddie can’t read it anymore. Richie sets the paper on the couch between them and shoves his glasses up onto his head so he can put his face in his hands, folding in on himself with his elbows on his knees.

“Hey,” Eddie says quietly, uncertain. He puts his hand on Richie’s arm. There’s a quivering moment of silence between them, and then Richie exhales a whimpering breath and starts to cry. He didn’t cry often when they were kids, and Eddie flounders in it now, startled out of his own grief in the face of Richie’s. He carefully moves Stan’s letter to the coffee table and scoots closer to Richie, putting his arm around Richie’s shoulders and hugging him close to his side. He half expects Richie to shove him away, or curl even further into himself, but instead he turns his head to press his face against Eddie’s shoulder, his hands falling uselessly to his lap. Eddie takes one of them, curls his fingers around Richie’s and squeezes. He feels like every piece of him is fracturing apart. He doesn’t think anything has ever ached the way this does. 

They sit like that for quite some time, Richie crying and Eddie trying not to cry, and eventually Richie sniffles and sits up. Eddie lets his arm fall away from Richie’s shoulders, watching with concern as Richie wipes his eyes and puts his glasses back on. 

“I, um,” Richie says, and then clears his throat. “I need to step out for a minute.” He stands up, not looking at Eddie, and runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “I’ll be back, I just — I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, because he’s not sure what else to do. He watches as Richie walks to the front door, pulls it open, and leaves. After he’s gone, Eddie picks up the letter and reads the rest of it. He’s crying by the time he finishes, tracing his finger over Stan’s signature and feeling for the first time the full weight of his loss. How awful, to finally remember Stanley again only to lose him immediately. And how awful, Eddie thinks, that Stan’s dying wish was for his friends to live unafraid, and here Eddie sits, letting him down. 

Richie is gone for a long time. Eddie worries, and almost texts or calls him about fifty times, but he tells himself that Richie is an adult and if he wants to process this alone, it’s his choice. Eddie refuses to become the overbearing, constant hoverer that his mother was, that Myra is. 

When the sun sets, though, Eddie can’t help himself anymore. He’s paced Richie’s apartment and stress-cleaned the kitchen. He even manages to find a can of soup in the back of Richie’s cupboard, and he heats it up and forces himself to eat a bowl before leaving the rest on the stove for Richie. He’s run out of ways to distract himself. He pulls out his phone and texts Richie,  _ Hey, man, where are you?  _

_ on the roof,  _ Richie texts back. 

Eddie decides he’s going to take that as an invitation, so he puts his shoes on and leaves the apartment, taking the stairs up two more flights until he reaches the roof access door. The sky is twilit with dusky blue, faint stars visible through the city smog. Eddie spots Richie pretty quickly, as he’s the only person on the roof. He’s sitting cross-legged near the edge, facing the last remnants of the sunset. He doesn’t react to the sound of the door opening, or when Eddie crosses the roof to sit next to him. Eddie draws his knees to his chest and watches Richie anxiously. He looks worn down, a bone-deep weariness. His eyes are bloodshot. 

“Where’ve you been?” Eddie asks quietly.

Richie gestures vaguely at the city sprawling out below them. “Just walked around for a while, I don’t know.” 

“You’ve been gone for like three hours, Richie,” Eddie says. “You were walking this whole time?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Richie shifts, laying on his back with his hands resting against his stomach. “Sorry for just running out like that, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, because it is, now that he knows Richie is safe. “Did you eat dinner? I made soup.”

Richie turns his head and finally looks at Eddie, brow furrowing in confusion. “I have soup?”

“Apparently,” Eddie says. “Your kitchen situation is fucking dire, though, Rich. Please let me take you to a grocery store tomorrow. I’d like to introduce you to the concept of a vegetable.” 

Richie laughs. “Yeah, okay. You sure you’re gonna have time before you have to leave? The conference is over tomorrow, right?” 

Eddie winces.  _ Be brave,  _ Stan’s letter said. Eddie thinks,  _ This one’s for you, Stanley.  _ “There’s no conference.”

Richie pushes himself up onto his elbows. “What,” he says. 

“There’s no… I didn’t come here for a conference. I came here because my marriage is falling apart, and rightfully so I should fucking add, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life but — I wanted to see you. And I couldn’t think of a good excuse to just show up, because then it’d be  _ obvious  _ and I was… I was scared.”

“Eddie, I. I don’t know what you’re saying to me right now,” Richie says, but it sounds like he does know, and Eddie recognizes the fear in his face because it’s the same fear churning in Eddie’s guts. The fear of spilling a long-carried and long-buried secret. 

“When we were kids,” Eddie continues, because he has to, because if he stops then he’s afraid he’ll never get it all out and Richie has to  _ know,  _ if only so he’ll stop looking so terrified. “Sometimes you’d just —  _ look  _ at me, and I wanted you to look at me like that all the time. And I thought I was bad for wanting it, I wouldn’t even let myself think the words. But I wanted that, wanted  _ you, _ so I buried it and then I forgot what it felt like to actually love someone until you showed up again.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’m sorry I lied to you and I’m sorry I just fucking dumped a lifetime of deeply repressed bullshit into your lap, but — I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

“Eddie, Jesus.” Richie pushes himself up into a sitting position. “You’re not the only one who’s scared. I mean, fuck, we very much could have died back in Derry, I was honestly expecting to, and I told myself,  _ if there’s any time to tell him, it’s now! _ But I didn’t, and then we lived, and I just… left. Like some kind of coward. And I’ve wanted to tell you so many times the past couple days.” He laughs, an odd and shaky sound. It sounds like how Eddie feels. “It’s not even like I thought you’d react badly, or that I didn’t, you know, think maybe there was something mutual going on at this point, but when you’ve spent your whole life not saying it, how do you even fucking begin to say it?” 

Eddie lets out a breath. “Yeah, no shit.” 

They look at each other. The sky is mostly dark now, but there are enough city lights around them that Eddie can see Richie’s face clearly, can see the hesitance and the want in equal measure. And oh, does Eddie want. There’s something charged between them, like if he were to touch the air in the space between their bodies it would shock him. 

“We should go back in,” Eddie says, feeling outside of himself. “The, uh — soup’s getting cold.”

“The —” Richie stops, blinks at him. He laughs, hanging his head for a minute, and then shoves himself up to his feet. “Right. The soup.” 

They walk back down the stairs and into Richie’s apartment, and they’ve barely made it two steps past the couch when Eddie says, “Richie?” 

Richie stops immediately. He turns around. It feels like they’re both holding their breath. “Yeah?” he says.

Eddie steps forward, and Richie is already leaning in, and then they’re kissing. Richie’s mouth is very warm, which is saying something considering Eddie feels like his skin is on fire right now, and he feels Richie’s tongue in his mouth and his knees honest-to-god buckle a little. Eddie’s hand slides up to cup the side of Richie’s face, his fingers slotting perfectly against his jaw, behind his ear. His thumb smooths against the hinge of Richie’s jaw, the grain of his stubble. Richie inhales sharply. He can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, moving them over Eddie’s shoulders and the sides of his neck, before he finally just sort of hugs Eddie against him. They’re still kissing and staggering over to the couch, where Richie tips backwards onto it and Eddie ends up with his knees bracketing Richie’s thighs. 

They’re both breathing heavily when they part, faces close enough that their noses brush. Richie’s glasses are askew, and he looks dazed. “So much for the soup,” he says, breathless.

“Richie,” Eddie says seriously. “I don’t give a single fuck about the soup.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Richie says, smirking. “You’ve been talking a whole lot about the s—” He’s cut off when Eddie presses down to kiss him again, hard and open-mouthed. Eddie slides his hands up under Richie’s shirt, and Richie lets out a breathy noise against Eddie’s mouth and says, “Oh Jesus.” 

Eddie feels somewhat untethered from reality for a while — all that matters is the wet heat of Richie’s mouth, the way his broad hands move against Eddie’s back under his shirt. He’s snapped back into sharp focus when Richie kisses his jaw and then bites it. Eddie’s hips jerk forward of their own accord and he lets out a startled, gasping moan when he grinds into Richie. Richie’s fingers dig into Eddie’s shoulderblades. 

They could keep going, Eddie thinks, easily carry this even further right here on the couch. And he wants that, wants all of it, but — he’s only said the words  _ I’m gay  _ out loud one time, ever. He’s only just starting to let himself think it. He thinks if they rushed too quickly now, he might start panicking halfway through, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

He pulls back, just enough to get some space between them, and when Richie tries to push up and kiss him again, Eddie puts a hand over his mouth. “Rich, just — hold on.”

“Okay,” Richie says, muffled under Eddie’s fingers. Eddie moves his hand so he’s cupping Richie’s face instead. “You alright, Eds?” 

“Yeah, I just, um. I don’t think I’m ready for… we just need to pump the brakes a little bit. Sorry.” He sits up, resting on Richie’s thighs, and suddenly feels incredibly embarrassed.

Richie scrambles to sit up too, jostling Eddie, and grabs his hands. “Eddie, it’s fine. Don’t apologize. Consider the brakes officially pumped.” He smiles, and Eddie laughs, leaning in to kiss Richie again, softer this time. When they part, Richie’s eyes flutter open and he says, “Okay, I am gonna need a minute to like, cool off. Or the brakes are going to become un-pumped very quickly.” 

“Stop saying ‘pumped,’” Eddie says, and eases himself off of Richie’s legs so they can both stand. Richie moves past him to walk to the kitchen, and Eddie sits back down on the couch and lets out some slow, even breaths. He can hear the sound of the sink running, and then Richie splashing water on his face. 

He comes back out with water on the collar of his shirt, dampness at his temples where he didn’t dry his face off properly. He drops onto the couch and pulls Eddie close to him, ducking his head to press his face into Eddie’s hair. Eddie can feel Richie’s heart pounding.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” Richie admits, quieter than Eddie’s used to. “Every time I got close, I just — panicked. It still feels like I’m not allowed.”

“Yeah, I was starting to think I was never going to bring it up,” Eddie says. “But then… Stan’s letter.”

Richie sucks in a breath. “Yeah. That.” 

“You wanna talk about… that?” 

Richie lifts his head, and Eddie shifts in his embrace so he can look at him. “I don’t even know what to say,” Richie begins. “It just fucking sucks, you know? He should — fuck, he should still be here.”

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows against the burning in his throat, the stinging in his eyes. “He said — in the letter — he said that if you find someone worth holding onto, never let them go. And he’s right. We could always count on him to talk some sense into us.”

Richie laughs softly. “He was good at that.” A pause, and then, “I don’t want to mess this up, Eds. I’m scared I will.”

“Considering the sheer amount of shit we’ve survived up until now, I think it’d take a hell of a lot to mess this up,” Eddie says.

“Okay, good point.” Richie squeezes Eddie a little tighter, jostling his shoulder. They’re quiet for a moment. “Hey,” Richie says suddenly. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

Eddie glances down at his hands. “Oh. I took it off. I, uh, called Myra earlier today and… ended things.”

“How’d  _ that  _ go?” Richie asks.

“Well, apparently she and my mother both thought I’d turn out gay if someone didn’t keep a close enough eye on me, so that was great to hear,” Eddie says, deadpan. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Richie makes a sympathetic noise and kisses Eddie’s temple. “Okay,” he says. “Well hey, since you don’t have to pretend to be at a boring seminar tomorrow, do you wanna do something? I was thinking we could go to the beach. You look like you haven’t seen the sun in about 27 years.” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, poking him in the ribs. “And you know public beaches are a fucking  _ breeding ground  _ for disease, right? There’s like, dirty needles and diapers and broken glass all buried in the sand, not even  _ mentioning  _ the amount of shit in the ocean that can attack you —”

“Eddie, baby,” Richie says, cutting him off. “Will you please come to the beach with me? I’ll protect you from the flesh-eating bacteria.”

“I didn’t even say anything about flesh-eating bacteria, but thanks for that,” Eddie says, shuddering. Richie is looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Okay, fine, yes. We can go to the beach.”

They both sleep in Richie’s bed that night. Eddie traces Richie’s face with his fingertips, and Richie closes his eyes and shivers at the touch. Eddie thinks again that he loves Richie in his bones, in the core of him, like it’s a fundamental part that was carved out for 27 years and is now returned. He feels just tired enough and just vulnerable enough that he almost says so, but then he realizes that Richie’s breathing is already evening out in sleep. So he just scoots closer, tucks an arm around Richie’s waist, and presses his face against Richie’s threadbare sleep shirt. 

“I love you,” he whispers into Richie’s chest.

Richie, still asleep, holds Eddie a little tighter. 

The beach is crowded when they arrive, and Eddie starts grumbling almost immediately about the unsanitary conditions and also how they’re not going to find a single good place to lay out their towels. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt with a Hawaiian shirt borrowed from Richie thrown over it, as well as sunglasses and enough sunblock to leave him feeling vaguely greasy. Richie, in his swim trunks and a shirt with the name of a crab shack on it, had to be forced to wear even the smallest amount of sunscreen. He’s carrying both of their towels slung around his neck, and he looks far too amused by Eddie’s complaints.

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” Eddie grouses.

“I always take you seriously, Eds,” Richie says. He stops suddenly in his tracks and tosses the towels onto the sand. “Here we go! Perfect.” 

They’re far enough from other people that it doesn’t feel so crowded, and Eddie can’t see any visible garbage or rusty nails sticking out of the sand, so he deems it acceptable. They spread out the towels and sit there together, listening to the rush of the ocean and watching some surfers further down the shore. Eddie pushes his sunglasses up on top of his head. 

At the same time, their hands inch toward each other, but then they both flinch away. Eddie looks over to see Richie already looking at him, and after a second they both chuckle, embarrassed. 

“This is so stupid,” Richie says, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I’m still afraid. No one can even see us. And we walked past like, five gay couples on our way over here.” 

“Richie, it’s okay,” Eddie says. “We’re, you know, adjusting or whatever.”

“When we were in Derry,” Richie says, “and I was getting my token. The fucking clown showed up, and did what It always did, got right in my brain and pulled out the one thing I was still terrified of. It knew my dirty little secret and It was gonna tell everyone, and that,  _ that _ scared me more than anything else. I didn’t even care if we all fucking died, I couldn’t take —  _ that.  _ It’s such bullshit.” 

“I think It knew for me, too,” Eddie says quietly. Richie turns to look at him, frowning slightly. “When we were kids, the first time I saw It. It said, ‘what are you looking for?’ And I was like, twelve layers deep in repression at that point, I didn’t even let myself  _ think  _ the word ‘gay,’ but when It said that…” Eddie shivers at the memory. “It fucking  _ chilled  _ me, man.”

Richie hums thoughtfully. “You know, I’m starting to think Pennywise may have been a homophobe.” 

Eddie just blinks at him for a moment, and then he laughs. “Shut up, Richie.” He reaches over, with confidence this time, and takes Richie’s hand. Richie looks down at their interlocked fingers, eyebrows raised in surprise, before tightening his grip. 

“Fuck that clown,” Richie says firmly. 

Eddie grins. “Fuck that clown,” he agrees. 

Richie gets bored of people-watching eventually, and then apparently also gets bored of protecting his skin from UV rays, because he stands up and pulls his shirt off and kicks off his shoes, saying, “I’m gonna get in the water.”

Eddie stares for a moment from his spot on the towel, looking up at Richie and taking in the newly revealed expanse of bare skin. Richie’s happy trail is going to send Eddie into cardiac arrest, maybe. Richie is looking at him far too knowingly, so Eddie just says, “You’re going to get a sunburn.” 

“What’s life without a little risk, Eds?” Richie says, walking backwards away from him, toward the water. “You’d be out of a job otherwise.”

“That’s — not — shut up, Richie!” Eddie splutters, and Richie grins, shooting him double finger guns before he jogs the rest of the way to the water, splashing in up to his waist. He looks happy, freer than Eddie has seen him in the days he’s been in LA. Eddie tries not to worry about sunburns and creatures slithering around under the water, and instead focuses on the look on Richie’s face, the way he’s smiling and tilting his head up toward the sun. 

Eddie’s chest twists with wanting, and for a moment he can hear his mother’s voice scolding him, can hear the leper’s whisper trailing from the Neibolt house.  _ Fuck that,  _ he thinks. He takes off his sunglasses and both his shirts, setting them carefully on the towel before taking off his shoes and walking purposefully down to the water. Richie turns and sees him, and his grin is the only thing Eddie needs to push away any of the nasty memories that had crawled up to the surface. Richie holds out his hands, and Eddie carefully picks his way through the water, wading in until he can take Richie’s hands and lets Richie pull him closer.

“Missed me already, huh?” Richie teases. There’s water speckling his glasses, and Eddie can already see the beginnings of a sunburn pinking his shoulders.  _ Fuck, I love him,  _ he thinks.

“I love you,” he says. 

Richie blinks, eyes widening, and he glances away with his lips pressed together. When he looks back at Eddie, his eyes are shiny. “Well that’s good news, because I love you. Always.” 

It is the easiest thing in the world, to lean up and kiss him. Eddie wonders how it felt so impossible and terrifying just a day ago. He wraps his arms around Richie’s waist and presses their mouths together, and Richie goes easily, his thumbs rubbing little circles at Eddie’s hips. Richie tastes like salt, which is kind of gross, but their bare chests pressed together is more than distracting enough. Eddie doesn’t care who sees them, and Richie doesn’t seem to either, if the way his fingers are creeping toward the waistband of Eddie’s shorts is any indication. 

They’re too wrapped up in each other to notice the wave before it crashes over them, drenching them both and knocking them onto their asses in the water. Eddie comes up gasping, spluttering and spitting out saltwater. Richie is laughing hysterically, his glasses crooked, and he hoists Eddie back upright before leaning on him to laugh some more. 

Fear doesn’t vanish overnight, and Eddie knows that he and Richie both have enough metaphorical baggage to spend a lifetime unpacking, but for the moment, he isn’t worried. The sun is shining on the man he loves, the man who loves him back and is currently wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and they are together, and they are okay. 

Eddie closes his eyes and leans into Richie’s embrace, and he is not afraid at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap!! thank you for reading!!!! please leave me a comment if you feel so inclined, i love hearing about what ppl enjoyed and feedback gives me the fuel to write more. and hit me up on social media if u want! 
> 
> til next time! peace out

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on social media for nonstop reddie commentary  
twitter @hermanngottiieb  
tumblr @joshuawashinton


End file.
